


Middle Ground

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Veronica's death, Jim finds it hard to get back to normal, especially since he doesn't want normal. Meanwhile, he tries to figure out why Sandburg keeps stealing the ball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Middle Ground

## Middle Ground

by Maggie B

I own nothing- except a Hyundai.

Thanks to Donna Jones for everything- the beta, the encouragement, the friendship, and for writing incredible stories that I wish I had written.   
Also, thanks to Kim for helping me brainstorm through some wild ideas before I found the path for this story.   


This story takes place after the episode "Dead End on Blank Street." 

* * *

Jim watched the scene unfold near his partner and considered the lure of Sandburg. Blue flannel shirt, jeans faded white at the knees, hair a wild mess, he looked like he did most days; and as often was the case, he stirred up interest. Someone found him irresistible. 

Lorraine was this one's name, the secretary who was Rhonda during Rhonda's vacation. Prior to Sandburg making his move, she gave Jim that look- the one currently aimed at the dark blue eyes of his partner. Jim should have taken advantage of that look when he had it, should have at least invited her out to dinner. A date with Lorraine would have done wonders for his reputation. She was tall and brunette with breasts the size of Sandburg's hands, not big but not small either, just about the right size for hands, and breasts if one were to ponder that sort of thing. Jim could ponder breasts as well as the next guy. Right now he pictured Sandburg's hands on Lorraine's breasts. He would cup them first, rub his thumbs across the most sensitive skin, squeeze gently then lean in to whisper about how soft they were, how fucking beautiful. Yeah, Sandburg would comment, no doubt about it, Sandburg would have something to say about them. 

And she would laugh, like now, leaning in and tipping her head to the side so her hair swung forward. Sandburg lifted his hand and pushed the dark strands behind her ear, a familiar gesture for someone who had only known Lorraine five days. But that seemed to be one of the things people liked about him- his ability to be familiar, to burrow in and make himself at home in your personal space. Lorraine smiled and her eyes lit up like a friend, a damn good friend, the kind of friend who would let you sleep over at the end of the night if it was raining. Jim would never touch a woman's hair after five days of sharing office space. It would take a date at least, and he might not touch her hair even then. Hair was personal. Hair was so much more meaningful than breasts. Touching someone's hair, pushing it back, dipping your fingers into it and gripping the curls tight meant something altogether different than squeezing a breast or sliding your hand across the curve of someone's ass. 

The phone rang at Lorraine's desk. She moved away from Sandburg, sliding backwards a couple of steps as if to maintain eye contact as long as possible before turning around. Her body shimmered with energy; Sandburg would no doubt call it her aura or something equally full of bullshit. Whatever it was, it spoke of expectation, of possibilities, like the rush after slamming back your first tequila shooter on leave. 

Sandburg perched on the edge of her desk, watched Lorraine cross her legs, balance the phone on her shoulder, reach for a sticky note and smile. He smiled back. Sandburg smiled better than anyone. Jim had to give him that. It was the mouth, the "fuck-me mouth." Who could resist lips with that much potential? Jim could imagine the talent involved in a kiss from Sandburg. Lips like those could push your mouth open, pave the way for a tongue to muscle in and explore. They could suck your neck and leave marks you couldn't cover the next day. They could slide around your cock with hungry persistence, Jim bet. Yeah. He bet they could make a person's cock sing "Hallelujah" or even "Mandy." Those lips were persuasive. 

A sudden bulge reminded Jim of the danger of pondering Sandburg in public. He slid his chair forward so the desk covered his lap and tried to focus on reports and Simon's cigars, anything to reduce the swelling. It would be hell if Sandburg noticed Jim with a hard-on. There would be questions and intricately obscene hand gestures and a knowing smirk from Sandburg, who really wouldn't know anything at all, who really would be clueless entirely about Jim's hard-on and the path his thoughts had taken to get him there. Clueless and irresistible, that was his partner. Jim sighed and rubbed his forehead. 

"Hey, you doing okay, man?" Henri Brown sat in the chair beside his desk and tossed a file at him. "Got a headache?" 

"Yeah." Jim flipped the file open. "This the forensics report on our John Doe?" 

"Yep. Reads like he loaded himself up with downers then went for a dip in the bay. Or, like someone loaded him up with downers and pushed him in the bay," Brown said. "Still waiting on an ID." 

Jim grunted. 

"Hey, I got aspirin in my desk if you need some." 

"I'm fine. Thanks, H." Jim closed the file and sighed. "I wish Homicide would get their shit together so their overflow would stop landing on our desks." 

"It's called interdepartmental support, my man." Brown grinned. "Not enough detectives to go around, you know? Gotta be cross-trained these days, gotta be a multi-tasker, a team player . . . " 

"Eat shit and die." 

"Uh, uh, uh." Brown shook his head in a slow, sad roll. "See now that's proof to me you weren't paying attention during the Chief's speech last month. I hear they have it on video. Want me to check out a copy for you?" 

"Bite me." 

"Damn, Ellison. You've got one serious case of grump-ass going on here. That headache must be a killer." 

Jim ignored him and kept his focus on the paperwork. No way in hell was he getting into a discussion about a headache caused by Sandburg's hands and his fuck-me mouth and his flow of pheromones around the room, wafting about like dust, settling on everyone within his path. 

"My cousin gets migraines." Brown looked wise. "Happens every time he pisses off his wife." 

"Yeah?" 

"She kicks him to the couch. No sex." Brown grinned. "He can't get no satisfaction." 

Jim glared. 

"Come on, baby, I'm just worried about you." He leaned his elbows on Jim's desk. "Hell, when's the last time you got horizontal with a woman? I'm guessing it was . . . you know." 

Jim held in a wince. Yeah, he knew. It had been Veronica, who no one mentioned by name. 

"Forget that." Brown waved his hand like an eraser. "Bad news. All history. It's time for you to move on, my friend. Get your groove back." 

"How about you keep your mind on your own groove, Sport?" 

Brown ignored him. "First thing you gotta do is stay alert, get your radar back in working order. Then you get back in the game." He leaned in and dropped his voice to the tone of a conspirator. "Hairboy's gotta be taught a lesson. This is what? Number two in two months?" 

Jim sighed the sigh of the weary. "What are you talking about?" 

"Lorraine. And last month it was that blonde, the tall one from the DA's office." Brown stared at Jim. "Come on, man. Sandburg stole the ball right out from under your nose." 

Jim felt an odd little flutter in his gut. 

"Riiight." He shook his head. "You're dreaming, H." 

Brown shook his head and stood. He gripped Jim's shoulders and squeezed. 

"I'm telling you, man. You've been trumped. And as sad as your love life is, you can't afford to be losing opportunities. You better get a handle on that boy." 

He sauntered off, chuckling in that whole body way of his. Jim flipped him off and returned his attention to his desktop. The lines on the report in front of him blurred as he considered just how little he cared about losing out on Lorraine or the blonde from last month. It wasn't like Sandburg knocked him off the free-throw line, for Christ's sake. With Sandburg, it was effortless, like breathing. He entered the circle of air shared by a woman and inhaled her, trapping something vital as he went about his normal routine of bullshit. It just came naturally: Sandburg and bullshit and women. 

But, there was Brown's other point: Veronica. She took something of Jim with her when she died, something he hadn't quite defined. All he knew was that she had been beautiful. They had history. Sex had been good, like sex with Carolyn- comfortable, conventional, the kind of sex bantered about on poker night, and stakeouts, so different from sex with men. 

It had been a long time. 

The last purely selfish fuck Jim could remember happened with a man five months before his proposal to Carolyn. His memories of sinking into another man's body, of dropping all pretenses about desire, were faded. He thought about it these days, though. He'd even smiled at the man who flirted with him last Saturday on the basketball court near the loft. The man had a fuck-me-once-then-move-on look. Warmth tickled Jim's spine at the memory. He tried to remember the freedom of sex without expectations. Expectation sucked the joy right out of an anonymous fuck. Jim's thoughts danced back to Sandburg. Sex with Blair would bulge with expectations. 

Jim set about arranging the papers on his desk in neat piles. He collected stray paper clips and dropped them in the paper clip holder. Then he turned to his computer, intent on filling out this last fucking report of the day, but his mind wouldn't go there. It stuck itself on Veronica and deceit, little lies becoming larger, full blown moments of revelation when the fraud of the day reflected back at him from mirrors as he mourned the loss of normal, instead of the loss of her. Whatever she took with her had left Jim in a free fall at times, where the only clear vision of his future included the blue eyes, the brown curls, the warm expression of one man. 

Jim drummed his fingers on the edge of his keyboard and grew restless. He wanted out of here. It was Friday and the weekend loomed. He needed to be elsewhere, somewhere Sandburg wasn't. 

Jim felt an odd heat against the back of his head. He turned to find Sandburg staring at him. He started when Jim turned around and something flickered in his eyes in the instant before he looked away, something eager and bold. Jim flashed on a memory of Steven, looking up as their dad came into the kitchen, waving hockey tickets in one hand and their report cards in the other. Steven got the extra ticket that semester. The moment passed as Sandburg blinked then smiled at him in the usual way before turning to Lorraine to answer a question she had asked, something about ink cartridges. White teeth glared against the burgundy of her lipstick. 

"Christ," Jim muttered. 

He pushed himself away from his desk and headed to the break room. He needed fresh air or at least some space without pheromones swimming through it. The break room was blessedly empty. Habit took his feet in the direction of the coffeepot. He grabbed it and considered his options for the weekend. There were things he should do: laundry, pay bills, change the oil on the pick-up. Then there were the alternatives: read that book, the one whose title he couldn't remember half the time. Or he could horn in on Joel and Rafe and Brown's bowling night. 

Or, he could check out the basketball court. Maybe shoot some hoops. 

He thought about Sandburg and what his plans might be. Lorraine would be his Friday night. Jim might not see him until Sunday depending on whatever barometer Sandburg took his readings from. It was hard to get a handle on what Sandburg wanted, at least when it came to women. Boundaries crumbled, foundations shifted just when Jim figured he had him pegged for a certain type. He never seemed to fit the holes in front of him and he looked at Jim sometimes, like Jim should know the answer, like Jim might have some clue about who would best fit in Sandburg's world. Granted, he sought Jim's wisdom only after a minimum of two beers and always on evenings when he had struck out. Jim liked those evenings when he could feed Sandburg crap and have him hang on every word. He could count those evenings on one hand. Tonight would be a great night for one of those. But there was no way, not if Lorraine's body chemistry had anything to say about it. 

"So, are you planning to pour a cup or just inhale the aroma?" 

Jim spun around and nearly dropped the coffeepot he had forgotten he was holding. Sandburg leaned against the doorway, propped casually with his arms crossed and his head tilted. His face was calm and boyish and edged with mischief. Jim felt the flutter again in his gut, this time it hurt in a way that flared before settling into an ache. 

"What's wrong?" Sandburg moved toward him. 

"Nothing." Jim grabbed a styrofoam cup and poured. "What do you want?" 

Sandburg stalled halfway across the room. 

"What's up with the attitude, man? You've been acting ticked off all day." 

Jim sat at the break room table and shot a glare. It landed with minor impact, just enough to cause a baffled and slightly perturbed expression. 

"What?" He groused at Jim. 

"I'm taking a break here, Sandburg. Not that you would understand the concept of needing a break since you haven't mastered the art of work yet. Why don't you head back to your sandbox?" 

He did the exact opposite, of course, and sat in the nearest chair. He drummed his fingers on the table and stared with a wide-eyed look, deceptively casual. Blair Sandburg collected facts by putting you at ease, making you drop your guard and reveal things, little things like why the toilet paper has to roll under and why the dishrag can't hang on the faucet to dry. He listened intently, gathered the facts, then just as you relaxed into that content space of feeling understood, he laughed at you and leveled twenty reasons why you were anal and how to recognize repression-based behavior in yourself. 

"That meant 'leave,' Sandburg." 

He stared. "Are you pissed because Lorraine wants to go out with me?" 

"You're planning to date her? Why bother? I figured with all the foreplay you've managed this week, you'd just fuck her at her desk. I doubt anyone would notice." 

"That's harsh, man." He feigned injury. "You're jealous." 

"Jealous of what exactly?" 

Sandburg shrugged. "She likes my sense of humor and how smart I am. And I've got a great ass." 

Jim choked on his first swallow of coffee. 

"Shit, Jim, You aren't supposed to breathe and swallow at the same time." Sandburg pounded his back. "No one ever tell you that?" 

"Lay off the Heimlich maneuver and I'll be fine," Jim rasped. 

Sandburg huffed out a breath and sat back down. He swept his palm across the tabletop and looked at Jim with an odd tilt to his chin. The look was there again, briefly flashing at Jim, broadcasting a message that was somehow smug and unsure at the same time. 

"Lorraine says I have a sexy voice." 

"She hasn't been forced to live with it through a stake out." 

Jim dazzled himself with the buddy-speak and insults he could dish while his mind skirted across memories involving Sandburg's ass. There was the time he came home to find Sandburg naked, hair still dripping from a shower, bent over the back of the sofa to snatch the phone. It had been a woman, another Sandburg-admirer. At the time, Jim had been too preoccupied with the study of twin mounds to realize he stood frozen in the doorway. Sandburg hung up the phone and turned to say, "Hey, coming in?" before padding back to the bathroom. Jim remembered details of that moment: the crooked smile and the slap of wet feet across the floor. Mainly though, he remembered feeling warm and smothered as he considered all the things someone might do to an ass like Sandburg's. Then he thought of being polite and asking who had called. But, he hadn't. He hadn't really wanted to know. 

"So what are you doing tonight?" Sandburg leveled a neutral expression at him. 

Jim sipped his coffee. "Haven't decided." 

"The Jags are on. You could watch the game." Sandburg shrugged. "Want me to reschedule with Lorraine? You and I could hang out." 

Jim smiled even as irritation skittered across his nerves. He didn't need Sandburg's guidance for what to do with his Friday night. He wasn't some goddamn charity case in need of a social director. He had options. Hell, there was a whole world of options out there Sandburg had no clue about. 

"Don't worry about it, Chief." Jim layered sarcasm into his tone. "I'll figure something out." 

Brown popped his head into the break room at that point. 

"Either of you interested in some bowling tonight? We need a sub for Rafe. He's got some dream date worked out and he's bailing on us." 

Sandburg looked at Jim as if to say "There you go!" 

"Got plans." Jim stood and dumped his coffee in the sink. 

Brown shrugged and moved away. Jim followed and made his way back to the bullpen, leaving his partner to stare after him with another in a long line of odd looks. 

* * *

Jim changed into sweats and sneakers when he got home. He opened the utility closet across from the bathroom and dug the basketball from the corner. Technically, it was Sandburg's ball, one of the remnants to survive the warehouse explosion. God, how many years ago had that been? And how many new things had Sandburg accumulated? Odd junk that he claimed wasn't junk. It mingled with Jim's things, confused the order, until it didn't seem to matter what Jim touched now. All of it held some connection to Sandburg. Jim caught himself smiling at that thought. Shit. He'd turned soft. He was one big, goddamned marshmallow. 

He opted against a jacket, deciding he'd dial down touch if it got chilly; one of the benefits of gaining control over his hyperactive senses. Jim took the stairs and pushed out the door of the building into sunshine. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He dialed up, soaked in the fall day, then dialed back after a moment. Control. Along with the clutter, and the occasional, inconvenient hard-on, Sandburg brought control to Jim's life. All the more reason to keep his mind off the track that ended with Sandburg naked and sweating in Jim's bed. 

Jim growled at himself then took off across the parking lot. He jogged around the corner and up the street, all the while listening to the slap of his feet on the pavement. The beat echoed through him, kept his mind busy. He spotted the park, and the basketball court on the northern edge. 

A few kids were there, plus the usual group for a Friday. Jim moved in. Took over the one remaining hoop and began to shoot. He paid attention to details, risked odd looks as he scored hoop after hoop. Something about the swish of the ball through the net soothed him, the simplicity of aim, shoot, score. No thinking, no right or wrong, nothing he couldn't have here if he wanted it. Time passed, and the world shrunk to a pattern of circles, ever-widening circles that included the hoop and the free throw line, then the hoop and the crack in the pavement a few feet back from the free throw line. Jim took his shots, and each time it was effortless. 

"Hey man, want to join up for a game?" 

Jim spun toward the voice, disoriented for a minute, not sure how much time had passed, but the sun was low, and the court was empty. The man stood beside him, the man from last Saturday, and he was sending that look. He was Jim's height, younger, and a tight gray tee shirt covered well-defined muscles; no bulk. His eyes were blue, a light shade. Sweat glistened on his skin, beading in droplets along his temple and sliding down to a firm jaw. He was handsome, in a classic sense, not Jim's type, really. The attraction came from the look in those eyes, the barely tempered desire in his expression. He smelled of pheromones and confidence. He watched as Jim bounced the ball, followed Jim's movements as if he had permission to stare. And, maybe he did. 

He smiled at Jim and pointed to the hoop. 

"Where'd you learn to shoot like that?" 

Jim took a breath, and focused his thoughts on the question. It took effort, and he almost turned away, back into himself, into his safe space of circles. But, the man's smile grew larger and his laughter was warm. 

"Don't know." Jim managed. "Just a natural, I guess." 

"Shit." The man ran a hand across the short brown crewcut. "There's nothing 'natural' about some of the shots you've been making." 

Jim kept quiet, not sure what to say to that. Sandburg would know, some response would flow from him, some bullshit that would skew the conversation toward a topic safe for Jim. Jim shrugged at the man and passed him the ball. 

"Take a shot." 

The man smiled from an easy stance, then suddenly dodged around Jim, bouncing the ball twice before leaping with graceful aim toward the net. He scored and turned to Jim with a challenge in his eyes. 

"Let's see what you've got in a one-on-one game." He moved into Jim's space. "Maybe those shots don't come so easy with a little distraction." 

He grinned. Cocky. So sure. He was Jim in a younger day. The breeze picked up as Jim caught the ball on one bounce, then began a slow dribble. This guy thought he could take him? 

"Bring it on," Jim said. 

The game lasted into evening. In the dusk, just before the street lamps and court light came on, Jim paused to catch his breath. He leaned his palms on his knees and felt the man's hand at his elbow. 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah," Jim said, "just tired. Been a long week." 

Jim stood and the warm hand slid to his waist. Jim blinked at the sudden arrival of this moment. It felt strange and familiar, like a memory just surfaced. But, something else ran with it now, a substantial thing that stole the certainty he knew had always been a part of this. 

"How 'bout we go relax at my place?" He put his other hand on Jim's waist and drew close. "I got cold beer, warm sheets." Laughter blew against his ear. 

Jim shivered. Heat rushed through his bloodstream, as the night air made its chill known. The clash tossed his senses into confusion, and he struggled for a comfortable balance, that space he lived in these days- the middle ground. Where the hell was it? In the middle ground, women were safe, and men were transitory. Jim tried to breathe slowly as another shiver ripped through him. Dials, he thought of dials, and Blair's voice urging him to visualize, to reach out and grab the one for touch and turn it down. 

"I don't know you." The words tumbled out, and Jim frowned. Why the hell had he said that? It had to be a side effect of Sandburg on the brain. It was, after all, the type of issue he would quickly resolve in this situation. No way Sandburg could fuck someone without knowing their name, probably their family history, what music they liked, what bugs they found edible. No doubt, Sandburg would want to know whom he was fucking. He'd climb into their skin, take the tour, settle in for a bit. Yeah, Sandburg would leave a mark. 

"What's to know?" The man shrugged. "I like to fuck." 

He slid both hands to Jim's ass and squeezed. Jim gasped as their hips bumped together. They were both hard, and breathing in a shallow rhythm that had nothing to do with basketball. Suddenly, Jim felt the urge to wind back, to say something about himself, something true and hidden, before their cocks touched between the soft fabric of sweats and worn denim. But, it was too late, so Jim did the next best thing. He pulled the man's face toward him and kissed him, pressing his tongue inside the willing mouth. 

It was cool and foreign, willing but indifferent, and not at all what Jim wanted. 

Jim pulled away, and spoke without thinking. "I can't." 

He thought his heart would pound out of his chest as he waited for the man's response. His face burned with realization. He was afraid, scared shitless of sex with this stranger, of whether it would be good, as good as he remembered, of whether he could make this man scream and want more. Of whether it would mean anything. Of whether it would mean too much. 

"You can't?" The man crossed his arms. His eyes flashed. "What are you, a prick tease?" 

Jim barked a laugh and shook his head. He suddenly pictured himself in this man's bed, lying apart from him after sex, gaining his breath, and wishing for his toothbrush and a shower, not having a single idea of what to say. Relief flooded him. 

"I have a feeling you'll live," Jim said. 

"No doubt." He looked at Jim for a long moment. "Word of advice, Sport: stay out of the game unless you're ready to play." He tapped Jim's chest. "And, when you're ready, drop by. I'm here most Saturdays." 

He turned and walked away. Jim watched him leave the court and head south, cutting through the park. Jim felt something then, a familiar sensation, an odd heat at the back of his head. He turned just as the streetlights winked then buzzed to life, spreading circles of light on the pavement. A sound caught his attention, something soft, almost a whisper. He narrowed his sight to catch the glimpse of a green windbreaker and brown curls before the figure rounded the corner toward the loft. 

Sandburg? What the fuck was he doing? Jim shook his head and grabbed the ball. He walked slowly toward home, pausing midway to tie his shoe. He sat on a bench and noticed the residual warmth from a body that must have been sitting there a long time. He looked toward the court and saw the benefit to this seat if you wanted to watch the action there. His gut clenched at the thought of Sandburg watching him kiss a man. He would have seen it, no way around it. All the air left Jim's lungs. The world became a tunnel and it seemed, for an instant, that the best thing to do would be to let it narrow until the black swallowed him, and he didn't have to think at all. 

A car horn blared, and Jim's world expanded in a whoosh to include the intersection nearby where a man in a white truck laid on his horn and glowered at a jeep full of teenagers speeding through a red light. One girl leaned out the back. A grin split her face as she flipped the guy off. Jim narrowed his sight to her finger, and nodded at the simple eloquence of the statement. 

He stood and began to walk- slowly- bouncing the ball with each step, feeling the need to announce himself as he made his way home. Enough with this shit, he thought. Sandburg knows now. So, he knows. No way was Jim going to apologize or explain himself. If Sandburg wanted to sneak around and "observe" Jim, then he'd better be prepared to deal with what he saw. Anger built in a convenient rush as he neared the loft. It nearly eclipsed the panic over what Sandburg might be thinking. Still, he waited for the elevator instead of taking the stairs. And, he stood outside the apartment for a full minute before touching the doorknob. 

Sandburg stood by the stove, emptying a shopping bag. Beer, two six packs, and the stuff to make chili. Game food. He ignored Jim, no greeting, not even a glance. His movements were stiff, and loud. Jim closed the door. He glanced at the coat rack, and noticed the green windbreaker hanging on the far hook. He checked his watch. It was a little past seven o'clock. 

"What happened to your hot date?" Jim kept his tone even, almost casual. 

"We went for a drink." He shrugged. "That was it." 

Jim waited, but that seemed to be all Sandburg had to say. Jim walked past him, tucked the basketball under his arm, pulled a beer from one of the six packs, then leaned against the kitchen island. He stared at Sandburg's back, watched the shoulders tense, and flashed to a memory of Carolyn, washing dishes during one of their fights, scrubbing the plates with a vicious rhythm. Jim had watched her, just stood there and fumed over the same complaint played over again- that he never talked to her, not really. Finally, he blew and told her she expected too goddamned much from him. 

He tried to recall what she had said. For the life of him, he couldn't remember the words now, just the expression when she turned, the look of resignation, as she asked him for a divorce. 

"What's all this?" Jim waved to the groceries strewn about on the counter. 

"Food." Sandburg put the beer in the refrigerator, pulled out one bottle then slammed the door. He twisted the cap off, and tossed it over his shoulder. It bounced once before clattering into the sink. He faced away from Jim again, braced his arms against the sink, and tilted his head down as if the answers to the universe rested in the stainless steel of the drain. 

"You were watching." Jim swallowed past the lump in his throat, and waited. 

Sandburg stood like a statue, and the loft was still. Jim found himself counting their breaths and the seconds between them. Then Sandburg's voice ripped the silence. 

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" He sounded raw and bewildered. 

Jim tried to think of an answer to that, something that would sound plausible even though the most important part was left out- the basic truth that he was in love with his partner, that he thought of him ninety percent of each day. And, of course, there was nothing to fill that space. So, anger rushed in. 

"It's none of your business who I fuck." 

Sandburg huffed a small breath. He shook his head, and his shoulders slumped. Jim wanted to reach out, pull him around, and stare into that face with the expressions that gave everything away. But, how fair would that be? Expecting full disclosure from Sandburg when the secrets in his own head piled against each other. 

"Yeah, I guess it wouldn't be my business." Sandburg's voice was a cold blast. "What the hell was I thinking?" 

"So, what's your problem, Chief? Is it that I fuck men, or that you didn't know about it?" 

Sandburg flinched, a barely there jerk of his shoulders. He finally turned around and looked up, past Jim's chest, to his eyes. Jim took the hit. He'd never seen Sandburg this angry. His mouth was a line, and his breath sounded painful, and the curls against his shoulders vibrated from the small tremors moving through him. 

"You don't want to hear about my problem, Jim." 

They stared at each other, neither blinking. Jim struggled to breathe past the knot in his chest. So this was the way it was going to be- the Communication King keeping his opinions to himself, no doubt thinking he was doing Jim a favor by not telling him what he thought. Goddamn him. He didn't need Sandburg's polite grace. 

"Fuck you, Sandburg." 

Jim turned and began to stalk from the kitchen. 

"Damn it, no you don't!" Sandburg pulled him around. They stood inches apart with his fingers digging into Jim's arm. "You aren't just walking away from this." 

"From what?" Jim shook his arm free. "You're the one having the fit here, Chief. You don't like the idea of me fucking men? Too bad. It's my life. You don't get a say in it." Jim laughed. "I guess your mind isn't as open as you like to pretend it is, huh Chief?" 

Sandburg breathed hard. "You are so fucking clueless! I'm not homophobic, you asshole." 

"Really?" Jim waved his arms in a grand gesture. "Forgive me for misunderstanding your meltdown. Why don't you clue me in?" 

"You're my best friend." Sandburg surprised him with a blank expression. "I guess I thought it went both ways, man." 

Jim felt the words like a blow, knocking his anger out at the knees. 

"Chief . . . " 

Sandburg shook his head and turned away. He walked toward the balcony and crossed his arms, staring out into a dark night without stars. Jim followed and stood behind him. 

"It does go both ways, Chief." Jim reached out and squeezed a drooping shoulder. "I'm sorry I never told you about this. I'm usually into women. It's just that, once in awhile, I like men. I haven't been with a man in a long time, never in the time I've known you." 

"So, it's not a new thing?" Sandburg asked. 

"No," Jim said. "I just haven't made the effort in awhile." 

Sandburg stood still, and his shoulders squared again, like a sponge soaking up and filling out. "That guy on the court made you want to make the effort?" 

Jim rolled his eyes. "I don't know, Chief. I haven't exactly analyzed the situation." 

"Have you been seeing him long?" Sandburg asked. His muscles tensed beneath Jim's fingers. 

"I just met him." 

"Are you going to see him again?" 

Jesus. "I don't know, Chief. He says he's on the court most Saturdays. I imagine I'll run into him. Why? Do you want me to bring him by for inspection?" 

Jim allowed his arm to fall to his side as Sandburg turned to face him. 

"Picking up strangers is so not a good idea, Jim." 

Jim stared in disbelief. "You're giving me a safe sex talk? Listen, Casanova, I think I can handle myself." 

Sandburg shook his head. "I know man, but still. Why some stranger? What's so hot about this guy?" He walked to the couch and leaned against the back. "Maybe you're rebounding. I mean, it's what you do. Veronica. . . " 

"Hold it right there, Chief." Irritation crept under Jim's control, like a burr on a sore spot. "I'm not about to sit through a lecture on how I handle my sex life, especially not from you. You're the last person who should be lecturing me about control. Hell, do you even have a count on the number of coeds you've slept with?" 

"You don't know everything about me." Sandburg was suddenly yelling. "Hell, you don't know the first thing about me. Not the first thing." He waved one finger in the air as if it illustrated everything. 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jim watched the finger slowly wilt. 

"Shit." Sandburg rubbed his face with both hands. "Never mind, man. I don't know." He shook his head. "Besides, we're not talking about me. We're talking about you." 

Jim felt a flash of heat as Brown's theory popped into his mind. 

"You know, even if I wanted a rebound fuck, I'd be in trouble. There's no way I'm getting anywhere with you around, dogging my action. What's up with that, Chief?" Jim felt steam building. "Have you used up your welcome with the women at the university? Do they have your number finally?" 

"My number?" Hurt flashed briefly in Sandburg's eyes then he lost all expression. "What would my number be, Jim?" 

"Gee, I don't know, Chief. You're the mystery man, after all. I mean, I don't know the 'first thing' about you, right? You're going to have to figure out that number all by yourself, I guess. And, while you're at it, you can tell me why you're stealing my options." 

"Why would I do that?" Sandburg's eyebrows lifted in an attempt at disbelief, but something in his eyes didn't match the expression. 

Jim knee-jerked past irritation into pissed when Sandburg wouldn't meet his eyes. He narrowed his hearing to catch the rapid breaths, and the too fast pounding of his heart. 

"You tell me, Chief," he said. 

"You think I'm that pathetic?" Sandburg raised his chin and stared at Jim with eyes full of too many emotions for Jim to sort through. "I'll tell you what's pathetic. It's picking the wrong person over and over." He kicked the corner of the couch and Jim jerked. "It's searching out the person who can give you the worst time, then handing your heart over. Who does that, huh?" He glared at Jim from a red face. "That would be your number, Jim." 

Jim opened his mouth then closed it. He floundered for a comeback, anything. 

"You don't want to be in love, Jim. You want relationships that are going to fail, ones that you can blame on someone else. They give you just what you need- the examples to back up why you don't trust anyone. You're the one who's scared shitless of commitment, of anything real." 

"Go to hell." Jim turned away as his knees began to shake. "Take your theories and go to hell." 

Sandburg stood behind him, breathing loud as if the air was too heavy, as if he had to work at it. Suddenly, the walls closed in. Jim needed out of here, just out. And, he needed to stop thinking, stop feeling. He could do that. He was good at that. 

Jim walked to the hall, tossed the basketball back in the closet, then moved into the bathroom and closed the door. He took his time in the shower, made his decision to go out to that club on 18th street, shaved, then made his way upstairs to get dressed. He pulled on jeans and a black tee shirt, then pushed his way to the back of the closet. He snared an old jacket- black leather, waist length- slipped it on, turned to the mirror, and blinked. He wanted normal. He'd planned on normal. But, he looked different. He paused to think about staying home, forgetting the whole idea, maybe watching the Jags game after all. What made him think he'd make it out of the truck anyway? What made him think he'd find enough nerve to even walk through the door? 

Jim walked down the steps from his bedroom and glanced at Sandburg. He was sitting on the couch, remote in one hand, beer in the other, staring numbly at the pre-game show on ESPN. He looked up as Jim passed by and his face flushed red. 

"You're going out." 

"Yeah." Jim instilled a dare into his expression. "Don't wait up." 

Sandburg pulled a 'get real' look then turned his attention back to the television. Jim walked to the door. He glanced back as he left the loft. Sandburg sat like a stone, staring at the television, flicking the label on the beer bottle with his thumb. Jim looked at the curls brushing his shoulders. He delved deep into shades of brown and auburn then took a breath and considered saying something, until Sandburg turned and the shade of color in his sight turned to blue- a bruised color, deep and shadowed. 

"You're gonna miss the game." Sandburg took a long swallow from the bottle then tossed his head toward the television. 

Jim shrugged and shut the door behind him with a little more force than necessary. Like hell was he going to hang around just to make Sandburg feel better. Jim had a life. He knew what he was doing. And, if Brown's theory was true, Jim should be feeling smug right about now. Yeah, Jim should be ecstatic. 

* * *

He sat outside the bar for an hour. Wavering. He had Sandburg contained to the back of his mind and needed to keep him there. Otherwise, why was he here? Otherwise, what was the point? 

Men trickled toward the bar in ever-larger numbers until a line formed and the bouncer looked busy. Jim focused on two men leaving. Arms slung about each other, breath puffing in white circles as they laughed over a joke Jim only caught the last line of- something about cocks and light bulbs and Elvis. They reached the parking lot and Jim dipped his gaze as they passed by the truck. He listened to the clatter of boots against gravel, kept his head down until the sound grew distant. In the rearview mirror, he watched them kiss. Wide-mouthed and brutal, the kiss spoke all the reasons. 

Jim left the truck and began the walk toward his place in line. He kept his face smooth, his eyes distant, and fought the clench as his jaw tightened with the effort it took to appear casual. He felt anything but casual. He felt like a foreigner, or a distant relative, returning to a house with new paint, new furniture, and a younger generation. Once inside, the feeling hit him full force. 

Dim. Everything inside the bar was dim: the lights, the bartender who gave him whiskey-sour instead of whiskey-straight, and the logic behind why Jim thought the trip here was necessary. Nevertheless, he sat at a table in the back of the room and soaked up the atmosphere like a sponge. 

He let the music and conversation blend, kept the dials low and thought of nights spent watching television with the sound turned down. In the quiet, Sandburg could study, cross legged on the couch across from Jim, papers strewn about on the cushions, laptop purring like a cat on his lap. Jim shook himself and focused on the dance floor. It was small and crowded. Light swirled in hazy circles from two spotlights above, cutting the expressions of the men below in half as shadows fell on their faces. Bodies bounced against each other like atoms, patterns vague but intentions clear. No one seemed confused in this place. 

He watched a couple near the edge of the floor, moving together then apart, until they finally settled in a loose embrace. He imagined how Blair might feel if they held each other while their bodies moved in rhythm, and thought of the debate he once had with Carolyn over dancing and sex. It occurred to him now that she was right; fast dancing was a stranger's sport. For a long time after their divorce, he had missed slow dancing with Carolyn, missed holding her after sex, missed hair in his face in the mornings, and knowing what to say. 

Movement at the next table caught Jim's eye. A man sat down. At first, Jim thought he was young, but a second glance left him unsure. It didn't much matter. One thing was certain- his eyes were brown and directed Jim's way. 

"You're thinking too hard." He grinned at Jim. 

His smile was easy and he used it well. Jim noticed the shadow of a beard and muscles shifting beneath a cotton shirt. 

"Yeah, I do that sometimes." Jim forced out the smart reply, along with a view of his own smile. 

It must not have looked as frightening as it felt, since the man pointed to an empty chair at Jim's table and raised his eyebrows. Jim nodded. He switched seats gracefully and looked at Jim with interest. 

"So, is that why you're here? To think?" He grinned. "'Cuz I've got to tell you. This isn't the best place to work your mind." 

And, that was the bulls-eye statement. Hell, it told the whole story. Jim nodded. "Maybe I should be working something else." 

The man leaned back and his expression lost all politely social intent. "Definitely." 

Jim's cock stirred from the verbal dance and he sipped his drink. He grimaced at the sour taste of whiskey and lime, and fought down the thought that this man would disappoint him. 

"Here's the deal." The man leaned his elbows on the table, inching closer to Jim. "I could buy you another drink, or we could dance. Or we could go to my place." 

Jim took a longer drink this time, ignoring the flavor, chasing off the burn with a deep breath. He listened to the music, realized the language wasn't English, something Latin. He felt it vibrate, felt it throb within his body until it meant the same as every song he'd ever heard in moments like this. At last, something familiar. 

"Let's go," he said. 

The man had his own apartment near the wharf. It was small. Jim noted one bookshelf and a stereo on their way to the bedroom. The bed was a double with no headboard. They landed in a heap as Jim pulled his shirt off. Jim groaned at the wet warmth of a mouth on his nipple. He arched into the sensation and nearly came as whiskers scraped against the smooth skin of his chest. God, it had been so long. Jim tried to focus on sensation, but his mind kept churning out the thought that something was missing. 

Jim concentrated on details. The man's fingers were rough. Jim remembered a guitar near the stereo and wondered if he had calluses from playing. Or maybe he worked construction. His back and upper body had the well-defined muscles of a man who lifted. He ran his tongue up Jim's chest toward his neck and sucked lightly. Jim turned his head to the side. The clock on the bedside table glowed like a round eye. Sandburg had a clock like that once, the wind up kind that ticked loudly and made an obnoxious noise when it went off. Jim complained about it one morning not long after Sandburg's first week in the loft. He remembered the horror on the kid's face. 

"Oh my god! I didn't think of that!" Sandburg had said. "I can't believe I was so stupid. Man, how could I have not thought of that?" 

"Don't have a stroke, Chief." Jim had been a little worried. The kid had changed from pale to red to blotchy in the span of a minute. "I'm just letting you know." 

"Thanks, Jim. I'll get rid of it. No problem." And he had looked at Jim with relief and such fondness. For a moment, Jim had felt like Sandburg saw inside of him- like Blair knew Jim better than anyone. 

A hard kiss startled him. He gasped in surprise at suddenly being pulled back into a moment without Blair. Their tongues met and the taste was beer and wintergreen. He bet Blair would taste familiar, like all the scents drifting from him in a day. Jim pulled back, pushed the man off of him and sat up. 

"What?" The man looked up and his eyes were so much darker than they seemed in the bar. Jim thought of earth swooping up at him from a parachute dive and craved blue. He closed his eyes and saw his color, encompassing him, lifting him up as he pulled the chord. 

"This won't work," Jim said. 

"What?" The man looked flushed and bewildered. 

"Everything's different." Jim felt heavy, weighed down by change. 

The man heaved a sigh and settled back against the pillows. He quirked one eyebrow. "So, who is he?" 

Jim huffed out a laugh. "My best friend." 

* * *

Jim saw the light in the apartment wink off as he walked from the building toward the truck. He sat for a moment in the quiet of the cab and extended his sight past the parking lot and the clutter of single story buildings, toward the bay. He closed his eyes and listened to the tide's phenomenon of rhythm and timing- reliable, inevitable, unrelenting. He realized he wasn't far from where his John Doe had been found. Forensics put the age at fifty-five. He had been tall and thin, basically average. Jim caught the flash of light from two boats passing in the bay, signaling each other. He found himself hoping the investigation would uncover a murder, or an accident, anything but suicide. And, he hoped there was someone to tell, at least one person who'd give a shit. Jim's stomach growled and he thought of Blair's chili. He would have made enough for leftovers, enough for Jim. Jim sifted through the images from tonight, the angry words and posturing, to the heart of everything. Blair Sandburg loved him, like a friend, the best friend Jim ever knew. It was more than most had- and it would have to be enough. 

It was midnight when Jim made it home. Lights were still on and he found Blair asleep in front of the television. He lay sprawled on the couch with one arm flung over his head, one leg resting precariously on the edge of the cushions. The remote rested under his chin, the fingers of one hand curling around it. An infomercial droned from the television and Jim wondered absently whether the Jags won. 

He pulled his jacket off and hung it on the coat rack. It smelled of cigarettes and stale beer and men he had brushed against in the bar. Blair moaned in his sleep and shifted. The remote began to slip. Jim walked over to grab it, and nearly tripped over a collection of beer bottles lined up on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. His eyebrows climbed as he counted. 

Shit. Blair didn't go on solo benders. When he got worked up, he lit white candles and meditated. And, usually, he talked to Jim. When Jim was around that was; when Jim wasn't out not fucking people. 

He shook his head and sat beside Blair on the couch, pulling the remote from lax fingers and shutting off the television. The sudden quiet made his senses sharper. He focused on the warm feel of Blair against his thigh and the soft huff of breath escaping as he turned his head toward Jim, murmuring something in his sleep. He looked vulnerable, so warm and open. Jim sat still, barely allowing his shoulders to ease, and watched those lips grow moist from the warm puffs of breath sliding past them. 

A crease formed between Blair's eyebrows and he muttered something that sounded like "me." Jim rubbed his thumb in a gentle circle against the crease then gave in to the urge to push those curls back, to stroke them once. What would it feel like to slide his fingers in deep? To sink into the warm spots and take hold? He allowed himself to play with one strand, to twirl it round and round until the softness and texture branded itself in his skin. A burn began low in his belly as the strand clung to his finger, curling around it like a satisfied mate. 

"Jim?" Bleary eyes suddenly stared up at him, undeniably blue. 

"Yeah." Jim knew he should bring his hand away, should stand now and grab the beer bottles from the floor, take them to the kitchen, rinse them out and toss them. He should tell Blair to go to bed, then head up the stairs and do the same. But, his fingers weren't listening. They moved in, collected curls, slid around the back of Blair's neck and cupped his head. 

"What about me?" Blair slurred, and his eyes were bright, and he sounded for all the world like his heart was breaking. 

Jim looked into eyes that were not quite focused, but eloquent in their misery. And the thought came to him that this look stretched from a place deeper than friendship. But, as fast as it came, Jim pushed it down. No sense in reading more into this moment than there was. 

"You're okay, Chief." Jim rubbed his fingers in soothing circles against the warm scalp. "Everything's okay." 

"Jim . . . " Blair's eyelids drooped. 

"Go back to sleep." Jim kept his voice soft. 

Blair reached for him with a clumsy hand. His fingers looped into the pocket of Jim's shirt. 

"Where'd you go?" 

"Just out. Nowhere special." Jim smiled. "What were you doing tonight? Shooting for the record in beer consumption? You got a ways to go, buddy. Between you and me, I know for a fact that Connor could drink us both under the table. And, don't ask me how I know." 

As he spoke, he continued the soft rub until Blair's eyelids lost the battle with gravity. The weight on his shirt pocket grew heavy and Jim grabbed the hand before it could slip away. He held it in a loose grip, twining their fingers in a bold moment. Blair's moan was a soft complaint against sleep as it finally reclaimed him. He looked peaceful and warm, and Jim sat beside him for a long while, holding on, making sure he stayed that way. 

* * *

Jim slept until ten. He'd left Blair asleep on the couch, safely tucked under two blankets and made his own way to bed long after midnight. Now, Jim lay in bed, staring through the skylight to an overcast sky, and listening to the sounds of Blair coming around. He stirred on the couch, moaned in the universal tone of hangovers, pushed his covers off then sat up. 

"Fuck." Sandburg's first word of the day. 

Jim stretched and thought of getting up to make coffee, maybe scrambling some eggs, finding the aspirin. That might be enough of a peace offering. He wasn't going to make a production out of it. He just wanted normal again. 

The shower turned on below and Jim listened to the spray hitting Blair's skin. The sound drew him in. Suddenly, it filled Jim's ears, along with the soft sighs and the slide of a soapy palm, moving in circles over territory Jim could easily imagine. Jim's cock filled and he moaned in frustration. He made a half-hearted effort to pull his focus from the bathroom, but gave into the urge to listen as the shower shut off, and Blair toweled himself dry. Jim blinked in confusion as the scent of shaving creme wafted up to him. Why was Blair bothering to shave on a Saturday morning- with a hangover? Next, he smelled musk, the cologne Blair wore on occasion. It wasn't a heavy scent, kind of mild and warm, earthy and casual. The hair dryer suddenly blasted and Jim winced. 

His mind flipped through possibilities. Maybe Blair had to go into work; could be a Saturday class or . . . hell, who was he kidding? Blair was going to meet someone, and he planned to put the moves on strong. He only used cologne for special "missions." Hell, he was primping- probably for Lorraine. Maybe, he planned to make up for lost time from last night. 

The door to the bathroom opened and Blair moved into his room. Jim listened to drawers being opened and closed, and his hard-on waned as he thought of Lorraine waiting somewhere. Jeans were pulled on and zipped. A soft shirt slid over still damp curls. Shoes were slipped on, laces tied. 

Then Blair walked into the hall and opened the closet. He rustled about for a second then pulled something out. Jim froze at a rasping sound, and the dull, echoing thunk as Blair dropped the basketball, then picked it up, ran his fingers across the rough skin, tapped it as if thinking, deciding. Then he was gone, out of the loft, through the front door of the building and onto the sidewalk. Jim listened to the thunk-ping of the ball against pavement, the rhythm that built then faded as Blair moved across the street, around the corner, and north toward the court. 

Jim didn't remember standing, but there he was at the foot of the bed, reaching for his jeans. He dressed in a blur and blasted out of the loft before his thoughts could fully surface. He imagined Blair on the court, Blair shooting hoops, Blair on the free-throw line with the man from yesterday, the man with persuasive eyes, the man Jim could have fucked. 

Then, Jim was at the bench on the sidewalk across from the court. And the practical choice was to sit down since his legs felt weak. So, he sat and watched Blair bounce the ball a few times, edge in toward the center hoop where the man was- and smile. The man smiled back. And, Jim wanted to stand, to move into that circle and ask "What the hell?" But, it seemed like a huge effort, so he focused instead, stretched his sight and hearing in place of his legs, and watched Blair's moves. Jim knew those moves, knew the purpose behind those expressions. Blair was flirting . . . and his target was Jim's stranger. 

There was conversation, of course. In a matter of minutes, Blair knew his name was John, he worked in that new office building on Main, and he lived just east of the park, in the apartments on Brookside. He wanted a dog, and he thought the Jags stunk this season. Minutes, it seemed, but it could have been longer. Jim lost himself in Blair's mission. He watched them dance around each other, bounce the ball back and forth, rush the net a few times and score. 

John looked more than happy, sort of like a tourist in Vegas who hit a jackpot with his first quarter. Hell, it was early, and look what had landed in his lap. Jim figured it wasn't everyday that someone like Blair came along for this guy. It probably was pretty fucking amazing when he thought about it. There Blair was with his hair pulled back, showing off those eyes, and the grin that made you part of his world. 

Jim caught himself holding his breath, and forced one long pull of air. He had to think. What the hell was going on here? He closed his eyes, centered his thoughts, searched for calm. Then, he opened them and the center flew away, along with rational thought at the sight of John pulling the tie from Blair's hair. 

The wind picked up and Jim's world narrowed to curls lifting, twirling, tumbling, taking flight like Blair's ideas, the ones he let loose with at the strangest times, the ones that spoke of wild paths and risk, before settling into the stream of Jim's thoughts and taking root. Now, they were collecting in John's hands- masculine hands, large and rough, moving with intent. His fingers thrust in. 

Jim bolted. He was on the court, only dimly aware of crossing the street, and nothing mattered but reaching Blair. Then, he was there, gripping John's wrist, feeling the bones grind together as he held tight and pushed his thumb into the cluster of nerves that flexed the hand. 

"Fuck!" John dropped to his knees. 

"Jim!" Blair tugged at his forearm, then reached down and pried Jim's fingers loose. He spun around and pressed his palms to Jim's chest, pushing him backward. "Calm down, damn it!" 

John stood and looked at Jim as if he'd lost his mind. Wind pushed leaves across the court in a sudden gust, and fat drops of rain began to fall. Players scattered past them, staring at the near fight, but jogging off as the drops came faster. 

"I don't need this shit." John kicked the basketball. It slammed against the fence and he dodged the rebound as he stalked away, leaving them alone on the court. 

Blair turned and began to follow, his face consumed with apology. But, Jim grabbed his arms and hauled him close until their noses almost touched. He flinched as Jim shook him. 

"What the hell kind of game are you playing?" Jim shook him again, aware on some level that he was close to the edge, that he needed to find a dial for temper and turn it down. "What's wrong with you?" 

For an instant, Blair looked like a lost boy. Then anger burst to the surface, spreading across his cheeks in a flush and turning his eyes darker blue. 

"Maybe nothing's wrong with me. Ever think of that, Jim? Maybe you don't know what you're missing." Despite the defiant tilt to his chin, Blair's voice shook. "Or maybe you're just too scared to find out." 

The words echoed in Jim's head, knocking about like billiards after a game shot. One by one they sunk in until the picture came into focus. Blair fisted Jim's shirt and stared up at him, blinking rain from his eyes, trying desperately to glare. Rain clung to his curls, weighing them down. 

"Tell me what I'm missing." Jim blurted, even as his certainty grew. Blair wanted him. It was there in his eyes, beneath the bluster and the arrogance. Desire rested in the deep blue, quivering as if it stood on shaky ground. And, Jim knew he should say something, knew Blair needed him to say something, but the sudden shift left him speechless. The world had just tilted on its axis. 

Blair closed his eyes and tried to pull away, but Jim held tight and moved closer. Their bodies touched and Jim shivered. A matching tremor coursed through Blair, and Jim thought of earth-music, the consonant hum. Hope rose like a runner on the mark and he found himself smiling. 

"You want me," Jim said, and Blair looked at him just as his smile stretched wider. 

"You think this is funny? I guess I'm some big joke to you, huh? Well, fuck you!" Blair shoved away, but Jim grabbed his wrists and tugged him back. He folded Blair's arms behind his back and held on. "Let go!" Blair squirmed and bucked, nearly ramming his forehead into Jim's chin. 

"Settle down!" Jim held on as Blair struggled. "Come on, Chief. Settle down." 

Finally, Blair slumped against him and whispered, "Let me go." 

"Not going to happen." 

Blair's breath hitched and he dropped his forehead to Jim's chest. 

"Say you want me." Jim touched his lips to Blair's ear. "Say it." 

Blair was quiet for so long that Jim almost caved, but in the end, he just held tighter, something firm inside telling him to push this, to make Blair say the words. So, he listened to the rain, watched it turn the pavement slick and black, and soaked up the feel of Blair in his arms. 

"I want you." It was a whisper, a barely there sound. Blair raised his head and his face shook with the effort for control. "I want you." Then his eyes grew fierce and bright, and he shouted, "No one else gets you! I've wanted you for so fucking long! And then it was him . . . but, why not me?" 

And, he shook so hard Jim worried he'd break apart. "Blair," he said, "It's you. God, it's always been you." He wanted to say more, to tell Blair everything, but the words weren't there, so he tilted his head and nuzzled past curls that were soaked with rain and smelled of musk. He touched his lips to the warm neck beneath, and Blair moaned like a man with old pain. 

Tender revelation. Jim suddenly knew exactly what he wanted, and it had nothing to do with an anonymous fuck or middle ground or comfortable sex. It had to do with Blair's face turning in, his breath warming Jim's neck, his lips brushing softly against Jim's skin. Everything led to this: the men, the women, marriage, and Veronica. Everything pointed Jim to this moment of masks sliding off, and love mixed with want, of expectations blooming. And, Sandburg doing things backwards. 

"Your aim is for shit, Chief," Jim said as he pulled back and stared into eyes that gave everything away. Blair would be a thoughtful lover. He would fit against Jim's body like a puzzle piece. He'd fall asleep beside Jim each night, and still be there in the mornings. They'd talk because Sandburg just would. 

"I'm over here," Jim said as he leaned down and took the kiss. 

It was good, so good. Blair sagged against him like a worn-out boxer as Jim released his wrists, circled his waist, and held him up, all the while expanding as Blair filled his senses. Blair ended the kiss with a gasp. He held Jim's face with warm palms and stared for a moment, brushing rain from Jim's cheeks with his thumbs. He still shook, but less so, more like tremors; and Jim thought of aftershocks and earthquakes as Blair searched his face. The moment stretched, and Blair moved his fingers to Jim's hair, smoothing it back, trailing a path with warm fingertips past Jim's ears, toward the nape of his neck. Desire rocked Jim like a sudden storm, and it was hard to breathe, so hard to breathe, and he lost himself to Blair's gaze, gave himself over to the need in those eyes, until it seemed they were the same person. So much so that he felt the moment when Blair believed it. 

"You want me, too." Blair took a ragged breath. 

"Yeah." Jim kissed Blair's forehead and smiled gently. "Guess I should have mentioned that, huh?" 

Blair huffed out a laugh and tried for cocky. "Knew it all along man." He touched Jim's face and his smile turned thoughtful. "For so long." 

The rain felt clean as Jim took Blair's hand and sprinted toward the loft. They took the stairs in a dash, stumbling, laughing, breathless by the time they hit the door. Once inside, Blair paused and looked around. Rain dripped from his hair and clothes. It splattered on the hardwood floor. He blinked then stared at Jim as if he expected him to disappear. 

"You're a mess," Jim slid his palm against Blair's cheek, rubbed his thumb along that lower lip. 

"Look who's talking." Blair sounded breathless. "Maybe we should get out of these clothes . . . " 

"Yeah." Jim felt his blood rush. It pounded in his ears. 

"I mean, we're both messes right?" Blair's voice faltered just the slightest bit. 

Jim nodded, and his gut ached. Suddenly he was aware of near misses, the almost moments he could look back on now and recognize as choices he didn't make. And, all the while, Blair had been hurting. God, how could he have been blind to this? Blair tilted his head and looked at him now with the expression he wore when reading Jim's mind. 

"You're thinking, man. That's probably not a good thing." Blair pulled his sweatshirt off and tossed it toward the kitchen where it landed with a splat on the floor. He put his hands on his hips, and tossed his chin toward Jim, challenge and a look that said what-the-fuck-am-I-doing flashing in his eyes. 

Hair rose on Jim's arms as if the air was electric. He reached for the hem of his own sweatshirt and pulled it off, tossing it in a smooth arc. He stood bare-chested, crossed his arms, and quirked one eyebrow at Blair, who still wore a tee shirt, jeans and soggy tennis shoes. Jim watched him toe the shoes off, then he followed suit. Next, Blair dipped his thumbs inside the waistband of his jeans . . . and popped the top button. Jim sucked in air that burned his chest. 

"No." Jim pushed his hands away. "I get to do this." 

Blair shivered. Jim grabbed his waist and tugged. He swayed forward and looked dizzy as his breath puffed across Jim's mouth. The world felt smaller, contained to one space. Jim slid his hands further, rubbed his fingers in circles low on Blair's back. It felt soft there, and warm, more intimate than Jim thought it would since he'd touched this spot before. But, not like this, never lingering, or trailing fingers beneath denim, then under the elastic border of those boxers- the short, white boxers he'd dreamt about once or twice. 

Jim went the distance and cupped Blair's ass. The moment blurred into Blair pressed against him, eyes on Jim's mouth, hands on Jim's face, pulling him down. The kiss was sloppy and desperate, and Blair moaned into his mouth. The sound thrummed inside him, and he found himself sliding, moving down Blair's body, pulling the jeans and boxers off. He knelt and pressed his face to Blair's stomach, felt the muscles bunch and quiver. Then, he gave in to the need to taste, just a small flick of his tongue. 

"God!" Blair gripped his shoulders. "Oh!" His hips thrust forward, and Jim wrapped him up, holding him steady. They stayed still for a moment, and Blair looked down. 

"Jim," he said as if it were a new word. "Jim." 

And, the smile was different from any Jim had ever seen. He wanted to match it. He wanted to speak, to say Blair's name over and over, but his throat closed up as he tried. 

"Hey," Blair said, "come back up here." He sounded gentle and persuasive. This was familiar. Jim knew that tone. It was the one that pulled him back from sudden edges, the one that coaxed memories to the surface. It made him stand now and look at Blair like a best friend. Then, the balance shifted into new ground when Blair smiled and said, "Gonna lose those jeans, man?" 

Jim couldn't make himself let go. Instead, he pushed Blair's curls back, smoothed them against the white fabric of his tee shirt, and thought of winter, Sandburg's coat, and the way a few curls always managed to get trapped under his collar. Jim's fingers tingled at the memory of reaching out to pull them free, but stopping short. Always stopping, holding back. 

Now, he was motion, forward momentum, and his fingers slid into the cool depths of Blair's crown. He tilted his head, leaned down and kissed him gently. Blair moaned and came alive, turning the kiss into a battle. He pushed Jim toward the couch, struggled with the snap and zipper of his jeans. Jim held on and gathered curls into his fists. He tugged Blair's head back and stared into eyes that were wild and dark. Blair said "please," then swallowed like it hurt, and Jim's control shattered. 

They moved in a blur, fumbled clothes away, and Jim fell backwards, pulling Blair with him. He found himself seated in the center of the couch with Blair straddling his thighs, kneeling, not quite touching, looking down at him with eyes so dark Jim could see his own reflection- he saw a man in need. 

"Jim, you okay?" 

He saw a man being rescued. 

"Whatever you want, Jim. What do you want?" 

He saw a man, finally at home in his own skin. 

"You." Jim slid his palms up Blair's thighs, then down to the soft spot behind his knees. "Just you." 

"Yeah?" Blair smiled. "You sure about that?" Now a grin. "I mean, you might want to narrow that down. I've heard I can be annoying, kind of pushy even." The grin faded. "Some people think I talk too much. They think I'm weird." Soft glance from bright eyes. "I believe in Sentinels." 

Jim tugged and Blair slid onto his lap. Their cocks brushed together, they froze on a gasp, and Jim closed his eyes to find Blair's silhouette burned against his eyelids. 

"So, Darwin." Jim's voice sounded rough as he bumped his hips up. "This give you any ideas?" 

Blair took a shaky breath, and sat still for a moment. Then he scouted Jim's borders: trailed his fingers up Jim's sides, skimmed his chest, his throat, his hair, then down again, pausing at Jim's mouth, hovering just above his lips. The reverence of Blair's touch nearly broke him. His body ached from holding back until finally he had to move, and he leaned forward, sucked Blair's fingers in, explored the texture of his fingertips. Blair moaned and began to move. A rhythm started with the slow roll of Blair's hips: forward, back, forward, back, and Jim caught on, instinct driving, and his hips thrust up, down. It was hard to tell where the burn started, maybe low in his back, or deep in his belly. All he knew was heat, and the sound of Blair's breath, and the overwhelming knowledge that he'd finally got it right. This was it. This. 

He came. Light flared, his blood rushed, and Blair joined him with a shout. Jim held Blair's hips as he eased down, shuddered once, then sagged forward. Jim wrapped him in a tight hug and smiled as Blair burrowed closer, tucked his face against Jim's neck and sighed. For a moment, the room was quiet, except for rain shushing against the windows. Then, Blair pulled back and looked at him. 

"Okay?" Blair asked. 

Jim considered all the questions in that word. 

"Okay?" He pushed Blair down on the couch. "Is that the best you can do?" He settled between Blair's legs. "What happened to that Sandburg vocabulary?" 

Blair grinned and brought his knees up to cradle Jim's hips. "You can't expect brilliance under these conditions, man." 

"I guess not." Jim brushed his lips across Blair's forehead, pecked his cheek, then his mouth. "Maybe we should try this again? Give your brain a chance to catch up." 

Blair's eyes flashed. He pulled Jim down into a kiss with its own language, and the message was yes. 

* * *

Later, Jim lay on the couch, trying to remember how Blair ended up on top of him, sprawled like a big, happy dog. Jim grinned at the thought and indulged the urge to pet back the curls drifting across Blair's face. This was rudimentary Sandburg. He drooled in his sleep, whistle-snored, and snuffled like a kid. Jim smoothed his hand down Blair's back and closed his eyes. He could get used to this. 

The phone rang and Jim glared at the handset resting beside him on the coffee table. He grabbed it before the second ring and grunted as Blair squirmed and wound himself around Jim like a wrestler. 

"Ellison." Jim whispered. 

"Jim, it's Brown." 

"What's up?" Jim kept his voice low and rubbed circles on Blair's back. 

"You sound strange, man. Did I wake you up?" Brown laughed. "I did, didn't I? Damn, you lazy ass. It's afternoon." 

"Is there a point to this call, H?" 

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. Rafe and I just finished a shift babysitting the witness for the Becker case. And, seeing as I'm this nice guy, I checked on our John Doe case this morning, too. Thought I'd let you know it's all wrapped up." 

"Yeah? What's the story?" 

"Turns out it was a suicide. He left a note to his ex-wife in his apartment." 

Jim felt heavy for a second, weighed down by something. "Thanks for letting me know, H." 

"No problem. Hey, what's with the whispering?" Brown paused and Jim could almost hear the wheels turning. "Hold the phone, man. Are you with someone?" His tone veered into wonderment. "Damn, you got lucky, didn't you? Hey, Rafe, Ellison got lucky!" 

"Say goodbye, Brown." Jim hung up. He looked down at the man who seemed to think Jim was his body pillow, and smiled. Who would have thought Sandburg would end up being good for his reputation. 

Jim settled back and thought about Brown's news. He realized that he hadn't asked the man's name, or if someone had claimed the body. Suddenly, something familiar flashed through him, a tiny burst of what he'd carried with him in Peru after the crash. The counselor he'd been ordered to see on his return to the states had labeled it survivor guilt. That ache had been with him for so long, reminding him not to expect much, and not to get too close. When had it lifted? He felt it now, but it was different, less powerful, more like a memory of pain instead of the pain itself, like a photograph he could put away. And, in its absence an idea rattled about- the thought that he'd been punished enough, that maybe he deserved things like passion, like love- maybe both. 

Blair mumbled something, his fingers twitched against Jim's chest, then he startled awake. He lifted his head slowly, looked at Jim, and blinked. 

"Jim," he said, "this better be real, man." 

Jim squeezed his ass. "Did you feel that?" 

"Yeah." Blair grinned. "Do it again, though, just to be sure." 

Jim obliged, then brought his hands up to frame Blair's face. They needed to talk about a few things, like basketball, and strangers, and women. But, that could wait. Right now, he wanted to kiss Blair. So, he did. Gently at first, then deeper. Time was a gray notion in this space where Blair surrounded him. And, for the first time in a long time, the future held real possibilities. 

* * *

End Middle Ground by Maggie B: maggiebcc@aol.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


End file.
